Some Sorites and a fox

My running route is littered with animal carcasses. Asphalt flowers at various stages of decomposition and stench. I think about the obscene speeds that disrupt natural rhythms, and soon find myself in the grips of the Sorites. I am a standstill carcass, the inescapable logical conclusion. The thought supervenes on throbbing muscles and bones moving at about nine miles per hour.

Across the wooden bridge I see a fox. It is in the middle of the biker lane, licking itself. I have never been so close to a fox before. I rasp my feet on the ground. She disappears into the woods. A subtle fall aroma drifts over my face. I breath in. Deeply.